The General of the Minutemen
by drow9001
Summary: The Spartan Rose Raiders just found their biggest payday ever; a Bureau of Alcohol, Drugs, Tobacco, Firearms, and Lasers office that's been untouched since the war, with a nasty turret defending it. If they got in, they'd be set for months, at least. And then the General showed up.


As the flimsy, rusted bobby-pin snapped in his hands, Rob snarled in anger. "GODDAMN IT!" That was the third, and last decent lockpick he had. Now what? Jack and Sparta were pinned down in the lobby, and their only ticket to the biggest haul they'd ever seen might be behind that lock. When the Spartan Rose Raiders had heard that the Bureau of Alcohol, Drugs, Tobacco, Firearms, and Lasers office was reasonably free from scavenging, they couldn't resist.. Rob was already regretting voting to hit this place, though. When the rumors mentioned something about a nasty, live turret still covering the biggest haul, he'd figured it was a rinky-dink toy made of aluminum, like what some of the other raider gangs had gotten their mitts on.

What he, Sparta, and the rest of the gang had found was a military-grade wall-mounted turret with heavy armor that deflected their .38 shots with barely a scratch.

"Broke your last pin, you pile of shit?" Rob turned his head to glare at the prisoner. Why the rest of the crew wanted to haul around a prisoner while they were doing this, too, he had no idea. Either way, he had to say something; if you don't scare the hostage a little, they think you're soft.

He stood up, and walked over to the grime-covered scavver, drawing his pipe pistol. "Yeah, think I should break your fingers next instead? Would be way more fun, asshole." Proving a point, he shot the hostage in the hand. The screams filled his ears, and even as his guilty conscious screamed at him just as loudly.. he was just doing what he had to do. "FUCK YOU!" The prisoner screamed, but.. well, the light of defiance was dead in her eyes. "Yeah, thought so. Now shut the fuck up, or you'll get a round in the other hand, too." He muttered out, storming back to the door. The guilt was a constant of life at this point. Remembering all the people he killed, clawing food from their cold, dead hands.. these days, he made it vanish with a good drag of Jet.

He soon regretted taking another puff, though; it screwed with his hands, and he could barely fit a paper clip into the lock, let alone try to pick it.. someone else would have to do the job, even if he could find another pick. To make it even more infuriating, he could see the terminal through the bulletproof glass! It had to have SOMETHING on it to stop that damn turret! It had already been an hour; the fuckers were probably getting impatient, and hell if he wasn't going to get a half-decent share of the loot.

His thoughts were consumed by frustration, and irritation at the stubborn lock.. until he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. It was innocuous, really; if you were a rookie, you wouldn't know the sound when you heard it.

Three little clicks, followed by the clatter of casings hitting the floor. The sound of gunfire, dampened by a silencer.

Immediately, he started to think; silencers said something. It ruled out Muties and Synths, because Muties were too loud. They'd probably throw away a gun that didn't make a lot of noise. Synths all used the same flashy laser guns, so no dice there. The few remaining options, though.. those were troubling. Most crews didn't use silencers; going in loud and causing terror was the usual Raider shtick. He could only think of two groups with them that were in this area. Secretly, he hoped it was the Gunners, the only gang that pretended to be 'professional'. They would barely have any chance of survival without a steep bribe, but it was better than the alternative.. Knowing them, as long as the crew said they could have the haul from this trash heap, they could probably leave without getting shot at.

He abandoned the door immediately, starting by rushing over to the prisoner and slapping some duct tape on her mouth. The LAST thing he needed was for the bitch to scream, and draw any attention to him. As he continued to think it through, his mind racing with fear, he came to a sickening realization; the scrapyard they took her from was too poor to hire Gunners with equipment like silencers. That only left one possibility; the General of the Minutemen.

His heart skipped a beat. Three more little clicking sounds. "What the?" He heard Sparta say from above, before she simply.. grunted, followed by a loud thump. Far too quiet, for Gunners.. so it was the General. His heart began to sink. Sparta was a decent girl, for a raider. They'd shared drinks around the fire, opened up to each other about how hellish their lives were. Hell, he even had a little crush on her. For a moment, a hot fury filled him.. but it quickly burned out. It was the fucking **General**. They all knew the rumors about the General of the Commonwealth Minutemen. The woman who took out Jared's entire crew with a pistol, a pipe rifle, a baseball bat, and far too many molotov cocktails. Who'd wiped out group after group of Gunners, alone, with no survivors; they had an incredible bounty on her head, and yet, it remained unclaimed for months. He had no chance in hell, and the instincts that let him survive as a raider now screamed at him to **get the hell out**; even if the stories were false, there was no other explanation for the sudden disappearances of so many gangs.

The clicking sounds, unfortunately, were getting closer, and closer.. he heard the click of someone reloading, and immediately ran for it, breaking into a dead sprint towards the exit. His knee exploded in sharp, hot pain; bitch shot him in the leg! He collapsed, clutching it as he found himself backed against the wall.. staring right into tinted black plastic. The General was a foreboding figure. He'd seen the armor before; it looked like Gunner gear, painted a dark shade of Minuteman blue. Their face, meanwhile, was completely concealed; a dark blue bandanna with the symbol of the Minutemen stitched into the fabric, and through her wraparound goggles, he saw piercing, dark green eyes. He let out a gasp of terror, looking into those predatory eyes with a look he hoped was pitiful enough. "P-please! Please, l-let me go! I-i won't fight you, but please, let me go!"

The silenced pistol in the General's hand lowered for a moment, hesitating. "... And what, let another druggie rapist killer go off to loot and pillage some more?" .. A female voice. He felt his heartbeat slow just a little; talking was good, right? Talking was better than shooting; he had to keep her talking! "N-no!" He felt himself gasping out, desperately looking into her eyes for any scrap of mercy. "No, never again, never going to be a Raider again. Please, just.. just let me go!" He felt himself flinch as he saw her grip on the pistol tighten. "And what will you do?" Her voice was chilled, perfectly calm despite the pistol in her hand. "A raider like you can't afford a house in Diamond City. The Minutemen will shoot you on sight just because of that raider ink on your neck, and I'm not going to vouch for you. You'll fall back in with the next raider crew that sweeps through this part of Boston, if you don't die from withdrawal or blood loss first."

Rob's heart sank. She was right, god fucking dammit.. and she didn't sound like she would be talking anymore. He looked to the side frantically, there had to be something he could do.. He spotted Sparta's corpse right beside him. His heart ached, but she had her pipe revolver by her hand! He quickly grabbed it, and managed to shoot the bitch in the leg; she let out a roar of pain and dropped her gun. Taking the opportunity, Rob forced himself to his feet, ignoring the burning, searing agony in his leg as he ran out of the BADTFL office. He didn't have much time; no more than a minute. He knew he would regret it later, but he circled the building; he remembered something that he hoped would save his life.

Namely, the river behind it. He hesitated as he stared into the diseased, irradiated depths, but.. he would die if he didn't. He quickly jumped in, held his breath, and swam under the surface of the water for dear life.

By the time he stopped swimming, he didn't know where he was.. but he did know he was safe. He crawled out of the water, panting and gasping for breath as he rested on.. some concrete block. Under a bridge, maybe? He didn't care. All he cared about now was that he could rest.. so, he did.


End file.
